My Wonderful Lousy Poem

When I was eight, I wrote my first poem. My mother read and cried, Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful poem!

Shyly, but proudly, I said yes. She poured out her praise, It was nothing short of talent.

What time will Father be home? I asked. I could hardly wait to show my work to him. I spent quite some time preparing for his arrival.

I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish, drew a fancy border around it and confidently I placed it right on my father's plate on the dining table.

My father had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. I was sure he would be able to aprreciate my poem.

At almost 7 o'clock my father burst in. He seemed upset. He circled the dining-room table, complaing about his emplyees.

Suddenly he paused and glared at his plate: What is this? He was reaching for my poem.

Ben, Buddy has written his first poem. My mother began. And it's beaufitul, abosolutely amazing.

If you don't mind, I'd like to decide for myself. Father said.

I lowered my head as he read that poem. It was only ten lines. But it seemed to talke hours.

Then I heard him dropping the poem back on the table. Now came the moment of decision.

I think it's terrible. he said.

I could't look up. My eyes were getting wet.

Ben, these are the first lines of poetry he's ever written. My mother was saying. He needs encouragement.

I don't know why. My father held his ground. Isn't there enough awful poetry in the world already?

I couldn't stand in another second. I ran from the dining room crying. Up in my room I threw myself on the bed and cried the worst of the disappointment out of me.

That may have been the end of the story, but not of its significance for me. I realized how fortunate I had been.       Every one of us needs that mother force, from which all creation flows; and yet the mother force alone is incomplete.

It needs the balance of the force that cautions. Watch, Listen, Review,Improve.

Those conflicting voices of my childhood ring in my ears through the yesrs, like two opposing winds blowing me.

Between the two poles of confirmation and doubt, both in the name of love, I try to follow my true course.